Another Brick in the Wall
by tpel
Summary: Trubel's perspective on Hadrian's Wall. A debriefing becomes unsettling. Main characters are Meisner, Trubel, and Adalind. Not much Nick in this one, but appearances by Monroe, Rosalee, and Wu.
1. Chapter 1

" _Act in such a way that you always treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never simply as a means, but always at the same time as an end." – Immanuel Kant (1785)_

It was times like this that an organizational chart would be helpful. Naturally, covert groups like Hadrian's Wall don't produce such documents.

Trubel knew that she, herself, was low on the totem pole, being a relatively new recruit. Meisner often told her what to do, or prevented her from doing things she wanted to do. Yet sometimes on missions she had a whole lot of autonomy; she was expected to figure out what needed to be done, and check in when she'd solved the problem. There were other people she saw around the HW facility whose jobs seemed much more circumscribed, so maybe, in a way, she outranked them.

Eve was arguably even more junior than Trubel, having come on board more recently. Most of the time Meisner bossed her around, too, though sometimes she seemed to be acting directly on orders from above. Trubel wouldn't be surprised to see the robotic woman plug herself into the computer system with a cable, like a Borg drone. She caught herself thinking about the former inhabitant of that body, smiling warmly as Trubel swiped the last piece of bacon, and frowned.

Oddly enough, most of the time, the obscure command structure of Hadrian's Wall really wasn't much of an issue. Since Chavez's death, Meisner was basically in charge, and when something was outside his scope of authority, he let them know, and he contacted the powers above him. Simple.

But now things weren't quite so simple. Meisner had been captured by a strike group from Black Claw. Hadrian's Wall's reaction – communicated through curt memos to relevant persons – was swift and aggressive. Trubel was on the counter-strike team. Their orders were to get Meisner back alive, if possible, but if not, they were to wipe out the entire Black Claw location, Meisner included. It was nothing personal; the German operative just knew too much to be left in the enemy's hands.

Much to Trubel's relief, she did not find herself in the position of having to kill her boss. In fact, the mission was a complete success. The Black Claw cell was neutralized, and Meisner was back in the compound, not much the worse for wear, thirty-six hours after he'd gone missing.

Now it was time to debrief him. Eve seemed to be in charge, and she told Trubel to be there, which prompted the younger woman to wish for an org-chart. Eve sat directly across from Meisner; Trubel pulled her own chair over so that she was positioned to the side, facing both of them at equal distance. There were a couple of guards in the room too, standing near the door. It wasn't an interrogation per se, since Meisner was obviously one of their own, but it's not like he could refuse to answer their questions either.

The questions were conveyed by Eve in her usual monotone. They went over what the Black Claw operatives had asked about, what Meisner had told them, and what they had done to persuade him to cooperate. In short, the answers were: practically everything, nothing, and not much.

The goons had wanted to know about personnel (wesen and non-wesen), equipment, supplies, funding, casualties, communication between Hadrian's Wall units, current plans, long term goals – you name it, they wanted it.

"They were all over the place. Either they were camouflaging their true interests, or they weren't very good at interrogation," Meisner speculated.

"Which do you think it was?" asked Eve.

"The latter. This was the warm-up crew. Someone mentioned that they were bringing a Gedachtnis Esser in from Iowa." He seemed remarkably blasé about the prospect of almost having his brain sucked out by a creepy octopus.

Eve went through the list of injuries Meisner had sustained – mostly contusions and electrical burns, plus a few cracked ribs. Considering the circumstances, it was a short list. You could almost see the programming code reflected in her eyes as she deliberately put a note of skepticism in her voice when she asked, "And none of this convinced you to share any information with them?"

Meisner seemed more amused than insulted. "Most of that was from me fighting with them when they grabbed me. Yah, they zapped me a few times, but I've been through worse. A lot worse."

 _Smug bastard._ Still, Trubel found it reassuring that a little thing like being tortured for a day and a half wasn't enough to shake her superior's stoic calm.

Eve kept staring at him. He broke eye contact first.

"You are not 100% certain that you told them nothing."

Meisner sighed. "One hundred percent? No. I can't be." He nodded toward the puncture marks on his left arm. "They drugged me twice, with something like sodium thyopental. I know how to . . . manage that. You can't lie easily, but you can make stuff up, let your mind wander. I am almost sure that I didn't tell them anything useful. But there are parts I cannot remember clearly."

He seemed annoyed by this minor failure, but immediately shifted into problem solving mode. "We need to think about damage control, on the chance that I did compromise some of our people or projects. We can't pull everyone – that would be more likely to endanger them than protect them – but let's identify those most vulnerable to a security breach and . . ."

"There is another way," Eve interrupted. "I can find out what you told them."

"I don't see how. They are all dead. Perhaps, if there was anything, they communicated it to other Black Claw units. But I understand that you weren't able to trace this communication."

"I can find out from you."

"I told you, I don't remember everything."

"I can make you remember."

Trubel found this exchange disquieting, but Meisner took it in stride. "How?" he asked.

"I will enter your mind. Even if you don't consciously remember an experience, I can access it, see it through your eyes."

Trubel spoke up for the first time, "Hey, wait a minute. If you can do that, why have we been bothering with threatening people, making their mouths disappear and stuff, to get them to talk?"

Meisner tilted his head, his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. "That is a good question."

Eve explained, "Telepathy is a delicate matter. Having someone force their way into your mind is so traumatic that thoughts are . . . scattered, often permanently. It is generally not an effective method of obtaining information. Unless the subject consciously _lets_ me in." She looked pointedly at Meisner.

To his credit, Trubel thought, Meisner did not respond immediately. He was a decisive guy, but not impulsive. After a long moment, he looked at Eve and said simply, "OK."

Eve nodded and got up, gesturing for the guards to come forward. They moved to bind Meisner's arms to the arms of the chair he was sitting in. Trubel noticed that his chair was bolted to the floor. The left-side guard succeeded in restraining that arm. The right-side guard found himself on his knees, wrist twisted as Meisner applied pressure to his hand. Not pushing through to break the man's wrist, but not letting up either, Meisner said to Eve, "What is this? I agreed to cooperate with your mind trick."

"I realize that. But the sensation will be unpleasant for you. You may react in ways that are unpleasant for me."

Trubel almost laughed – in other words, Eve didn't want Meisner punching her in the face. Having been on the receiving end of his fists, Trubel had to admit that it was a reasonable concern.

Meisner exhaled slowly, then released the poor guard. He let the man strap his arm to the chair. For the first time, however, he seemed uneasy about the situation. Trubel concurred.

"Close your eyes. Try to make your mind blank. Think of a simple shape – a blue square, for instance, that fills your field of vision. When you become aware of my presence, focus on the shape, not on me. The locus of your attention is only important for the first several seconds; once I am in, I will regulate matters."

With a hint of reluctance, Meisner closed his eyes. A minute later, Eve came to stand over him. She woged and brought her palms together, sparks gathering at the base of her hands and flowing up to the tips of her fingers. She separated her hands, and in a swift movement, brought the pad of her right middle finger into contact with the seated man's forehead.

Meisner's whole body jerked and his eyes snapped open. "Don't. Panic." Eve snarled.

He closed his eyes again and forced himself to be still as an eerie glow spread around his head and down over his shoulders, then disappeared as if absorbed into him. Eve had an expression of deep concentration on her corpse-like face; Meisner's lips were pressed together like he was in pain.

Eve pulled over a small rolling table, on which she had a tablet computer. The fingers of her left hand flew over the screen, while her right hand remained in contact with Meisner's face. Now energy was running up her fingers and arm, as if drawn out of him. Her eyes shifted back and forth between the man and the computer.

After a few minutes, she used her earpiece to make a call, presumably to their superiors, "Information transfer was negligible. I'm forwarding suggested adaptations." A pause as the other side responded inaudibly. "Understood," she signed off.

Trubel expected Eve to back off now. In truth, she wanted it to be over. Sweat glazed Meisner's skin, and every muscle was tense. Though outwardly collected, he was clearly in some distress. Thus, the young woman was not pleased when, instead of releasing him, Eve pressed more firmly against his forehead, bringing her index and ring fingers into contact too.

Meisner opened his eyes again, expression at first startled, then filled with vague horror. He began to struggle, pulling against the restraints, but they held firm. When he tried to shake free of Eve's touch, she pushed his head back more. He might be strong, but Eve had all the leverage. She stepped to the side of his chair, presumably to avoid being kicked.

"What are you doing?" Trubel challenged. "I thought you found that he didn't tell 'em anything."

"That is essentially correct," Eve replied, "But we are taking this opportunity to analyze other interactions he has had with Black Claw and with the Royals – some of whom are linked to Black Claw. I may be able to detect connections that were missed."

"That . . . that sounds like a fishing expedition," stammered Trubel.

Eve ignored her, once again lost in concentration. Meisner was still struggling, his movements becoming more panicked and less goal-directed. He twisted his head from side to side, but Eve just moved her hand along with his face, undeterred. He opened his mouth to speak. It took him a long time to actually produce any words. Finally, a hoarse whisper: ". . . bitte . . . nicht . . ."

"You said you needed his consent," Trubel argued, "That doesn't sound like consent to me."

"I needed his acquiescence to start the process. It is no longer relevant."

"Seriously. Stop it. _Now_." Trubel stepped between Eve and Meisner, grabbing Eve's right shoulder with her left hand and drawing her right hand back in a fist.

Eve gazed at her quizzically for several seconds, the only ambient sound the ragged breathing coming from the man in the chair. Infuriatingly calm, she asked, "What exactly do you plan to do? Meisner is an exceptionally useful operative, so it is logical to assume that I do not intend to permanently damage him. Yet you have no idea what damage might occur if you break my contact with him by force."

' _Fuck_ ,' Trubel thought, remaining motionless.

"If you are concerned about his suffering, your interference is only prolonging it."

Every fiber of Trubel's being protested that this was wrong and prompted her to slug the cold bitch. Instead, she removed her hand from Eve's shoulder and stepped back stiffly.

Eve stated, "I estimate that it will take me twenty minutes to complete this task."

Trubel glared at her the whole time. Meisner soon stopped fighting and sagged back in the chair, shivering a bit, but otherwise still. His gaze lost focus, eyes darting around rapidly like he was dreaming. Eve had to tilt his head up to a more neutral position so that hyperextension of his neck wouldn't impede his breathing. True to her word, Eve finished within the allotted interval. "Done," she announced. The glow from her fingers increased momentarily, then dissipated as she broke contact.

Meisner slumped forward, chin dropping toward his chest, shoulders shaking as he sobbed quietly. Eve promptly lost interest in him, becoming engrossed in her tablet. Trubel knelt down in front of him. She didn't know what to do. "It's ok. It's ok," she babbled.

When she tried to place a comforting hand on his bicep, he flinched away violently. So she did the only helpful thing she could think of: she unfastened the straps from his wrists, freeing him.

Meisner lurched to his feet and stumbled away a few steps. He looked back toward the women, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Eve glanced down to where Trubel's hand still hovered near a strap on the arm of the chair. "That may have been premature," she remarked dryly.

Trubel wasn't interested in the hexenbiest's opinion at the moment. "It's alright," she tried to soothe her colleague, who was looking around frantically for an escape route, "It's all over now. You're safe."

It wasn't clear whether he heard her. He headed for the door. The guards were stepping aside even before Trubel barked at them not to engage with him. The one with the sore wrist certainly didn't need to be told twice. However, the door was still locked. Meisner shifted his weight in a way that told Trubel he was about to try to break through the door with his shoulder – an impossible task with the reinforced doors in the compound. Trubel didn't want him to hurt himself, so she put herself between him and the door. She held up her hand and said, "Wait!"

That got his attention, and he paused long enough for Trubel to tell the guards to unlock the door.

"Is that wise?" said Eve.

"Look, I can't let you leave the building yet," Trubel addressed the distraught man, "Not 'til you've calmed down a bit. But you can go to your room, if you want. Do you want to go there?"

He didn't really indicate 'yes' or 'no', but at least he seemed to be listening to her. She nodded to a guard, who unlocked the door. She was confident that the security-conscious Eve would remotely lock and unlock the doors along their route, as needed. Trubel went along to make sure he got to his cell ok, without trying to make a break for it or kicking anyone's ass along the way. To be fair, he didn't seem inclined toward violence – he hadn't gone after her or Eve or the guards. But, like the two women, Meisner was a living weapon, and Trubel wasn't sure the safety was on right now. Hence, precautions were appropriate.

Fortunately, they weren't that far from personnel quarters and the corridor was deserted. Meisner walked under his own power, though he occasionally veered to the left, nearly colliding with the wall. When Trubel touched him on his right elbow to try to guide him, he pulled away. He let the fingers of his left hand trace along the wall as he walked, and that seemed to give him more stability. Trubel breathed a sigh of relief when they reached his door and he immediately went inside.

Meisner paced the length and breadth of the sparsely furnished room twice, then ducked into the small attached half-bath and splashed water on his face and toweled it off. He sat on the end of his bed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

' _Can I leave now?'_ Trubel thought, hopefully, then immediately felt guilty. She sucked at touchy-feely interpersonal stuff, so she was way outside her comfort zone right now. She wasn't sure if Meisner wanted her there – all of his recent actions and body language indicated that he wanted to get _away_ from people. Still, just walking out seemed wrong.

She crouched near him, without touching him, and said gently, "Meisner?"

To her pleasant surprise, he looked right at her in response, his gaze wary, but lucid.

"Do you want me to stay?"

He stared back as if he had no idea what she was talking about. So, maybe not _completely_ lucid.

"Should I stay here with you for a while?"

He shook his head.

Trubel nodded and slowly got up to leave. "Someone will check on you later. Maybe me. Maybe the medic. (It occurred to her that a little medical supervision might be in order). Not _her_."

As she was closing the door behind her she heard, "Thanks."

Then a solid, metallic click as the bolt slid into place.

[Author's note: I'm not a fan of gratuitous character torture. To see the point of it, you'll have to read the next chapter. And for that to happen, I'll have to _write_ the next chapter . . . which could take a while!]


	2. Chapter 2

[Author's note: This story takes place soon after Season 5 Episode 10, when the gang acquires the Grimm books. I think it reads better if we spread out the timeline of events on the show a little. So, pretend that Nick and Adalind are living together, but have not yet begun a romantic relationship. And Renard has not yet discussed getting Diana back with Adalind. And Adalind's 'biestiness has not yet reemerged.]

Trubel was on her favorite mode of transportation – her motorcycle – going to her favorite remaining place in Portland: the Spice Shop. Nick and Juliette's house had made her feel safe and cared for, for the first time in almost as long as she could remember, and the trailer full of Grimm books and weapons had filled her with awe. But both those places were gone now. What she had left was the Spice Shop. Although she was going there on official Hadrian's Wall business, she was looking forward to seeing Monroe and Rosalee.

It was now two days since the debriefing. The first day afterward, Meisner was on leave. While members of Hadrian's Wall didn't officially get sick days, they were allowed time to recover from injuries. Today, he showed up for regular hand-to-hand combat training with Trubel. Although, for some personnel, Meisner gave structured martial arts lessons, with Trubel they basically just tried to beat the hell out of each other. At first this had been quite painful for Trubel, but later it got to be fun. His technique was better than hers, but she was learning fast. Today, it hadn't gone so well. Meisner's timing was off. It might not have mattered against a lesser opponent. Against a Grimm, it did:

 _Meisner aimed a kick at Trubel's midsection, but she saw it coming, spun inside his striking range and clocked him hard with her elbow to the side of his jaw. He stumbled, but was up again instantly, driving her back with quick jabs. Not quick enough. She got in a kick of her own, and when he grabbed her knee, she pivoted and pulled up her other leg, causing him to lose balance. They hit the mat, both of their weight coming down on his shoulder. He rolled with the fall, getting to his knees before she did, but leaving an opening for a well-placed kick to his ribs. She took the shot, but pulled it, lessening the impact._

 _That pissed him off. "You don't have to take it easy on me!" he snapped._

" _Apparently, today I do," she shot back, silently fuming: Jesus! His ribs are still wrapped. What the hell does he expect me to do?_

 _Anger flared in his eyes, but faded quickly into fatigue. "Fine," he conceded, "Let's just run."_

' _Running' meant racing through a parkour-like obstacle course, which was among Trubel's favorite training activities. So, at least one of them was having a good day._

Trubel took her worrying over Meisner's welfare to be a sign of her own crappy work history. Hadrian's Wall was her first steady job. Before that, when she wasn't locked up, she'd done odd jobs under-the-table, working for employers who were either dirtbags or out to exploit her – usually both. Chavez and Meisner had abducted her and kept her locked up at first, but once she was on board with the organization they treated her decently. And Meisner had come to save her when she was in the hospital, at the mercy of Black Claw. Maybe he was just protecting his investment. Still, however low her "bosses who don't suck" bar was, Meisner passed it, and that was a new experience for Trubel.

She pulled up to the Spice Shop and headed inside. Monroe and Rosalee greeted her with their typical enthusiasm. Not usually a huggy person, she found she was okay with it, as long as it came from them or from Nick – the people who had become like family to her. Plus, she spotted Chinese food on the counter and, judging from the smell, it wasn't all vegan. Score!

After she'd scarfed down a plateful and was working on her second, they got down to business. "You got the location set?" she asked Monroe.

"Yeah, yeah. My cousin Sandra's ex-husband, he's got this hunting cabin a couple of hours north-east of the city. Don't know what he needs with a hunting cabin, seeing as he's a Klaustreich, and for them hunting just means torturing whatever is nearby. Yeah, that marriage went over real well with the family, but don't get me started. Anyway, my cousin says they hardly ever use the place anymore, and it's fine for us to have it this weekend. I'll text you the directions."

"You'll bring the books?"

"Half the books," Rosalee put in.

"I nearly threw my back out hauling the whole lot of them to a secure spot. Not looking forward to doing _that_ again," Monroe said, "Plus, you know . . ."

' _You don't trust us,'_ Trubel supplied mentally. That was OK. It was kind of the point of their upcoming expedition: building trust, or at least familiarity, between Hadrian's Wall and Nick's support people. They had agreed to look through a portion of the newly acquired Grimm tomes together. After what happened to Aunt Marie's cache of books and the threats surrounding the new batch, it was clear that this resource was too fragile and valuable to just sit on. Monroe's uncle had the right idea to scan some pages, but they didn't want electronic copies to fall into the wrong hands. The first step toward deciding what to do was to survey the books in an organized way.

The plan was for Trubel and Meisner to work with Monroe and Rosalee, to outline the contents of the books. Trubel was included because she was already part of the gang, so she could serve as a bridge. Meisner was included because he had become the face of the local chapter of Hadrian's Wall. Plus he could read German. Monroe and Rosalee got to pick the location and maintained possession of the books. Nick had some party he had to go to with Bud's family, but might drop in for a little while.

As they wrapped up the details and leftovers, Adalind arrived with little Kelly. Much cooing and fussing ensued, more from the adults than the baby. Trubel liked kids just fine, but always felt like she might accidentally drop or injure small infants. She also wasn't sure how she felt about Adalind. Nick seemed to have made peace with her, and she trusted Nick's judgment, but at the same time she couldn't forget what the blonde woman had done. Still, for Nick's sake, Trubel was willing to give her a chance.

An idea occurred to the young Grimm. She followed Adalind into the other room, when she went to lay Kelly down, and said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Adalind replied, sounding a little wary.

"Are you and Meisner friends? I remember you asking about him."

That took Adalind by surprise. "I . . . I don't know exactly. He saved my life a bunch of times, took care of me through the scariest week of my life, and delivered my child. I like him a lot. But it's not like we've spent any time together when people weren't trying to kill us. I don't even know his first name. Why do you ask?"

"It's 'Martin'. There's a nameplate on his desk. Never heard anyone call him by it." Trubel told her. Adalind smiled at that, but held out for a more substantive answer.

"A couple of days ago, he had a pretty awful experience. He says he's fine. But I was thinking, if you were a friend, maybe he could use one."

Adalind looked genuinely concerned, and Trubel found herself liking her a little bit. She liked her a little more when Adalind asked, "Can I come along on your camping trip?"

By 7pm Saturday, Trubel thought her head might explode. They had been poring over the Grimm books for hours. It wasn't like their usual use of the books—skimming until they saw a picture that looked like whatever beastie they were after that week, then reading a few relevant pages. This time, they had to read scads of text with an eye to timelines, geographical threads, common authors, narrative inconsistencies, etc. And this batch of books was older and more heavily European than Aunt Marie's, with a lot of entries in German and some in other languages, which made it slow going.

"Why is this print so small?" Monroe moaned.

"I think it's getting smaller," added Rosalee, sighing, "and more ornate."

The cabin consisted of two big rooms—a sleeping area and a living room/kitchen—plus a bathroom. Monroe and Rosalee were at one end of the rectangular kitchen table, a book spread between them. Meisner and Adalind were set up similarly on the adjacent side of the table, with Trubel and Wu at the other end. A few books were open for reference in the middle of the table. Monroe had only recently stopped flinching each time someone touched a book with ungloved hands; he still scowled at insufficient gentleness with the pages. Wu had come along to consult on the technical aspects of scanning and encrypting, and also so that he could give Adalind a ride home if Nick's first overnight-alone-with-baby didn't go so well. That was nice for Trubel, as she and Wu could team up to look at some of the later volumes, written in English. Wu joked that they made up the monolingual end of the table. Of course, Wu wasn't really monolingual; it was just that his extra 'lingua' weren't particularly helpful right now.

The multilingual end of the table was more interactive, with Monroe frequently calling out to the universe in general (and Meisner in particular) when he hit an obscure German word, "What the hell does _ mean?" Once or twice, it went the other way. Meisner was a native speaker, but he didn't have Monroe and Rosalee's geeky appreciation of language and culture. To him, 'Torschlusspanik' meant the fear of life passing you by. Rosalee had more insight on how, at the time the text was written, it literally referenced the fear that the town gates would close with you outside—perhaps being dismembered by a pack of Hollentier.

"OK, I'm fried," announced Monroe. "Aren't the rest of you fried? I'm gonna check on the chili." He got up and gave the concoction on the stove a stir. For an otherwise run-down cabin, the kitchen was in good shape.

"I've actually been in a coma for the last hour," said Wu, "I was hoping nobody would notice." Trubel groaned in agreement.

"We could all use a break," Rosalee suggested. Adalind gratefully sat back in her chair. Meisner shrugged noncommittally.

Monroe caught the latter gesture as he returned to the table. "Yeah, you could keep going 'cause you don't have to force your rusty brain to tap into a language you only sort of remember. For you, it's like reading comic books—you've got your illustrations, your snazzy captions, the works."

Wu noted that he didn't recall quite so many beheadings in _Betty and Veronica_. Meisner smirked, but didn't comment.

Adalind addressed Meisner, "You didn't read comic books when you were a kid?"

"No, I did. But mostly I read them in English."

To questioning glances, he elaborated, "American comic books are better, or so we thought. But expensive. My brother nicked them from the corner store."

"'Nicked' as in 'stole'?" Rosalee teased.

"Yeah, I was worried about keeping him alive and out of sight of the Royals, not so much about the petty theft." He added, with a brief grin, "Besides, I got to read them too."

Trubel thought there were some obvious follow-up questions to be asked here, but nobody asked them.

"Well, the U.S.A. may win on comic books, but Deutschland wins on beer," Monroe said, bringing a six-pack of bottles over to the other side of the room, where a couple of old loveseats and threadbare upholstered chairs marked the living area. He identified it as "Weihenstephaner dunkelwizen," adding, "Rosalee would only let me bring one pack."

"That's because we're supposed to be working," said Rosalee with mock sternness, "There's Coke in the cooler."

With the veggie chili cooked "to exquisite perfection" (as Monroe put it) and the cornbread done, they moved over to the living area to eat. Trubel thought about suggesting that they eat at the table with the books, just to see if that would make Monroe woge from outrage, but she was hungry and didn't want to delay dinner.

The beer was suspiciously dark-colored. Trubel grabbed a coke instead. Wu was more adventurous. He took a slug, made a funny grossed-out face, then took another slug. "The things we do to get alcohol into our bloodstream," he grumbled.

Meisner sipped his beer slowly and closed his eyes. Trubel thought she detected a slight smile, but he also looked exhausted. Then his eyes snapped open and both impressions vanished. "Something's wrong," he said.

"Yeah, it's warm and—," Wu cut himself off mid-snark, cocked his head a little and listened intently.

Rosalee slipped over to a window and opened it about an inch. She woged and sniffed, then whispered, "Someone's out there."

Monroe joined her. "A whole lot of someones," he added.

Wu had his handgun, Trubel her machete and various other concealed items. Meisner never traveled anywhere without a duffel bag full of weapons. He unzipped it and nodded to the others to help themselves. "I'm good," Monroe said, woging.

"Is it Black Claw? Maybe they're after the books. But how did they find us? Could they have followed one of us up here?" Rosalee said, squinting out into the darkness.

"Didn't follow me," said Wu.

"No way," said Trubel. She and Meisner couldn't both have missed someone following their car. Wu's skill as a cop belied his goofball nature, so she believed his assertion; Adalind had ridden with Wu. Monroe and Rosalee could be distractible, but they were the first ones to arrive at the cabin and they brought the books. If someone had tailed them, why not attack them right away, instead of waiting for the rest of the group to arrive? A horrible thought started percolating up through Trubel's brain, but she was distracted by a crash and the sound of breaking glass coming from outside the front door.

"Get down," Meisner barked, pulling Adalind down to the floor with him. They all covered their heads, as the sound triggered visions of a Molotov cocktail spewing explosive flames. But the flames never came. Another crash, and another collective flinch, followed.

Monroe sniffed the air. "I don't smell gasoline. I think . . . I think they're just throwing empty beer bottles at us. Well, mostly empty." Another sniff, "Pabst Blue Ribbon."

"We need numbers and locations," said Meisner. He looked at Trubel and continued, "See what you can detect from the back porch."

Wu was crouched near a front window, fiddling with an infrared scope from Meisner's weapons stash. Meisner and Monroe positioned themselves on either side of the door, in case someone or something crashed through. Rosalee and Adalind hurriedly packed the books back in their crate.

Trubel took a quick look around the rear of the building, and found . . . nothing. All the action seemed to be out front. And quite a bit of action, judging by the sound of it—as if there were a dozen or more combatants. No, that wasn't right. This didn't sound like a regimen. It was more like a small group that was disproportionately loud because, instead of using radios or cell phones, they were communicating by shouting at each other.

She got back inside in time to hear Wu say, regarding the infrared device, "Uh guys, I'm not sure I need this." He peeked over the windowsill. "They're waving around flashlights. I see five . . . maybe six."

Another boozy crash at the front was followed by, "What the fuck you playin' at, Jack? Get your fat ass out here!"

A second voice, which sounded like it had participated in emptying the flying bottles, added, "We had ourselves an agreement—you wasn't gonna cook no more out here, and we wasn't gonna break your legs."

"They've got a problem with my chili?" Monroe wondered, perplexed. Then he said, "Oh . . . OH! Sandy's ex is named Jack."

"Might he have been cooking something a bit more exotic than chili?" asked Wu dryly.

Trubel put the pieces together: dumpy cabin with a great kitchen; a couple of years worth of dust on everything, but before that someone had done serious cleaning; nice big table with good lighting; locals trying to run them out of town. Meth dealer. Crap.

"Did I mention that Sandy's ex is an idiot?" Monroe groaned. Then he cracked the front door and yelled, "Jack's not here. I'm his wife's cousin. And I'm not cooking anything here but chili." Pause. "Would you like some?" Adalind gave him a 'WTF' look for inviting their attackers in for dinner.

Neither the explanation nor the invitation made much of an impression. There continued to be shouts for Jack, threatening various kinds of bodily harm. The small mob was now just off the front porch, with one climbing the steps. By the security light and flashlights, they could see that only two of them held firearms, while the others brandished clubs and bottles. Rosalee quietly slid a side-front window open so that Wu could keep his gun trained on the most dangerous two.

"Let's settle this," said Meisner, nodding to Monroe and Trubel. Monroe un-woged and Trubel slipped on a pair of sunglasses. No need to put all their cards on the table up-front. But Meisner kept his rifle and Trubel her machete, both held down at their sides.

Monroe opened the door and the three of them slipped out, arraying themselves on the porch in front of the door. "Guys, guys, I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said, in a conciliatory tone, "I haven't seen Jack for years. His ex-wife said we could use this place. We don't want any trouble."

It seemed to be dawning on the group that Jack might really not be present. They started murmuring about checking to see of he'd left any "stuff" behind. "Let us look around. Maybe we'll find something we like," one of them slurred.

"Yeah. You two and the little girl gonna stop us?" shouted another from the rear of the pack, a pot-bellied guy with bad teeth, "You're outnumbered. Get outta the way, and maybe she can come party with us tonight."

Did they not notice the big-ass knife she carried? Trubel thought of various ways she could behead him, but aloud she said, "There's more of us inside."

The front-most assailant stepped up onto the porch. Big mistake. Meisner swung the butt of his rifle in an uppercut to his chin. The force of the blow spun the man half way around. In a quick, fluid motion, Meisner grabbed the back of his jacket, spinning him the rest of the way around, and slammed him face-first into the porch column, then pushed him forward toward the steps. They all watched as the guy walk-stumbled down the porch steps before falling flat on his face, unconscious. "Want me to even the odds some more?" said Meisner.

OK, so maybe they could have coordinated their messages a little better. From inside, the sound of weapons being cocked bolstered Trubel's we're-not-really-outnumbered statement.

Seeing their buddy so casually dispatched, along with the threat of being outgunned, penetrated their drunken belligerence. Three of them woged in fear—Klaustreich—and they all scurried backward a few paces. A gun fired and wounded a tree. Trubel was pretty sure it was accidental. The idiot had been waving the pistol around with his finger on the trigger; when he panicked he squeezed. Losing a hand might teach him better gun safety, but it might also prompt a police report. So Trubel just brought the flat side of her machete down hard on the top of the man's wrist. She heard a satisfying crunch. He dropped the weapon, whimpering.

"Great. Now that we've got your attention," said Monroe, a hard edge creeping into his voice, "let me make this clear: get lost"—he woged then roared—"or we start chasing you mangy cats up trees!"

They fled, dragging their wounded with them.

"Well, that was fun," said Monroe, returning to his normal visage, "Who's ready for that chili?"


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner, Monroe and Rosalee tracked where their assailants had come from and ascertained that there was nobody out there now. Meisner and Wu set trip-wires on the perimeter of the cabin property that would trigger an alarm. The six of them worked on the books for a couple more hours before turning in for the night. Although they felt pretty sure that the threat—such as it was—had passed, they set a watch. Trubel volunteered for the first shift, positioning herself on the front porch, right off the living area. Most of the others went back to the sleeping area—a large room furnished with four bunk beds, one in each corner.

All was quiet. Trubel observed Meisner coming back into the living room. He sat in one of the chairs and absently fed some kindling into the wood-burning stove. A few minutes later, Adalind approached, bearing two mugs. She handed one to Meisner, who gave her a questioning look.

"Tea. It should help you relax," she explained.

He took a tentative sip.

"Trust me," she said, smiling and drinking from her own mug.

"I do," he replied. Trubel found that odd, since, as far as she knew, Meisner trusted no one and Adalind was far from trustworthy. But he sounded like he meant it.

"Then can you tell me what happened?"

He sighed, "What did Trubel say?"

"Very little. That's why I'm asking you." She gazed at him expectantly.

"Look, it's really nothing. We needed some information. Eve went into my mind to get it."

"What?" Adalind sounded alarmed, then she reasoned, "I guess you must have let her?"

He nodded.

When he didn't seem inclined to say more, Adalind said, "I've never done it myself. It doesn't actually come up very often among Hexenbiests, since to get anything useful out of it, the person you're entering has to agree to it, and most sensible people won't do that." She gave him a _'seriously, what were you thinking'_ look. He tilted his head, eyebrows quirking up in an almost self-deprecating expression.

She continued, "But my mother taught me about telepathic spells when I was a teenager, and she had a friend of hers demonstrate it on me. She only did it for a minute, but I still remember how vulnerable I felt. When a Hexenbiest enters into you, she leaves her human aspect, for lack of a better term, at the door. This callous, pitiless being is loose inside your soul, rummaging through your memories and emotions, touching whatever she wants to, and you can't—"

"Stop," he said, shaken.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," said Adalind, placing her hand on his arm, "I'm just mad at Juliette or Eve or whatever it is she's calling herself."

"I'm not."

She waited. He elaborated, "Do you know how you 'condition' a Hexenbiest to do your bidding? There's no magic involved, only pain and deprivation. We got her at the moment of death, when her defenses were down. Any time she gave a negative response, I hurt her. I kept hurting her until her will was broken." After a brief silence, he added, "I don't have any right to complain against her."

Although Trubel had known, in general terms, what Eve and Meisner had done, she was appalled by the specifics, and also by his kindergarten-level logic that ignored the basic tenet: _two wrongs don't make a right._

Adalind responded, "I get what you are saying. But I don't care about her, only you."

"I'm fine. Truly."

Adalind looked at the fire he'd been mindlessly feeding, at the entrance to the sleeping room from which muffled snores emanated, then back at him, raising her eyebrows in mild reproach.

"I . . . I cannot sleep," he admitted, casting his gaze down to her hand on his arm, "And when finally I do, I . . . dream, and then . . . I don't want to disturb everyone."

One of the few benefits of living in a metal cube, Trubel mused, is that you can wake up screaming and nobody will be the wiser.

Adalind regarded him with surprising warmth, and said, "Finish your tea and do whatever you need to do before bed."

He seemed puzzled, but complied, disappearing from Trubel's view for about five minutes. When he came back, Adalind took him by the hand and said, "Let's go to bed. I'll wake you if you start dreaming."

He balked, "You don't haf to—"

"Ah," she interrupted, raising her finger and smiling, "Sometimes I miss having powers. Yeah, I made a mess out of my life and the lives of others with them, but at least I wasn't useless. _This_ , I can make better. And you're going to let me."

They disappeared into the bedroom.

XXXXX

When Trubel's time on watch duty was over, she went into the sleeping room to wake Wu, whose turn was next. She used only the light from her cell phone to get her bearings, so as not to wake the others. The room was rectangular, wider than it was deep. Trubel had left her backpack next to the bunk bed on the front wall, to the right of the door. It was currently unoccupied. Wu had the other bunk along the front wall, on the other side of the door. Trubel poked him and he shuffled out to take over the watch.

Trubel saw that Meisner and Adalind had taken the bed across from hers. They were both in the bottom bunk. The twin mattress didn't leave a lot of room, but they seemed to be sleeping comfortably—her leaning against his chest, their arms draped around each other. Rosalee and Monroe had taken the bunk across from Wu, though instead of sleeping in the bunk bed, they had laid the mattresses on the floor in front of it, side by side. Monroe was probably too tall to fit easily in a bunk. He was snoring, but not loudly.

Sometime during the night, Trubel heard Adalind wake Meisner, presumably from a nightmare, and she heard them whispering for a while afterward. She couldn't make out much of what they were saying, though she thought she heard the word 'Diana'.

XXXXX

When Trubel awoke the next morning, it was light out and all the other beds were empty except Adalind and Meisner's. They were still asleep, now facing toward Trubel's side of the room—Adalind in front, with her head pillowed on Meisner's arm and her hair partially obscuring his face. Trubel got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, then the kitchen. Rosalee and Wu were already there, drinking coffee at the table. Rosalee passed her a cup as she sat down.

Regarding Trubel with a mischievous grin, Rosalee said, "Adalind and _Meisner_? Did we know about this?!"

"I don't think there's really a 'this' to know about," Trubel replied.

"I knew he got her out of Vienna, when her first baby was born, but I didn't know there was anything else going on," Rosalee gossiped gleefully.

"Isn't she living with Nick?" said Wu.

"She's living with him, but not ' _living with_ ' him," Trubel clarified, feeling like she was fifteen.

"Monroe says they share a bed," giggled Rosalee, "though he thinks they aren't, ah, doing anything but sleeping." To Trubel, she added, "You really think she and Meisner aren't together?" She sounded a little disappointed.

Trubel was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. She shrugged and said, "They're friends. If there's 'benefits' involved, I don't know about it."

Wu said, "Let me get this straight: she's had sex with almost every male we know: Hank, the Captain, Nick. But if she really likes a guy, she gets into bed with him, but no sex? Hey, this is making my own pathetic love life seem less pathetic."

Adalind closed the door behind her as she entered the room, and put in cheerfully, "Sex was plan B."

The others looked up, startled. The blond woman smirked at their discomfort as she went on, "He was having trouble sleeping. I was able to resolve it with tea and company. But sex was definitely my back-up plan."

"What kind of tea?" asked Rosalee.

" _That's_ your question?" exclaimed Wu.

"Chamomile and skullcap."

"You know, everyone thinks of chamomile, but yeah, skullcap is a good choice . . ."

"Are we seriously gonna talk about _tea_ now?" Wu groused.

Adalind had mercy on him and went back to the previous topic: "I've had sex for worse reasons than helping out a friend. I mean _way_ worse—nefarious even. And it's not like it would be a terrible sacrifice on my part. Have you _seen_ him with his shirt off? Damn."

She appeared to be relishing the opportunity to yank all their chains a bit, and Rosalee and Wu were loving it. Rosalee responded, laughing, "Meisner? No, I can't say I've had the pleasure."

They all looked at Trubel. "I don't know what you think goes on at Hadrian's Wall, but we're generally fully clothed," she said. They kept staring. "OK, there was this one water activity . . ."

"And . . ?" Rosalee prodded.

Trubel gave in to the girl-talk: "He's too old for me, and he's my boss so—eww. But yeah, totally ripped." She grinned self-consciously.

"I don't even usually go for tattoos," Adalind commented.

' _I do'_ was on the tip of Trubel's tongue, but she decided to shut the hell up and spare herself further embarrassment.

"OK, now I'm starting to feel pathetic again," said Wu, "Let's get back to talking about your messed up sleeping habits."

Just then, the door to the bedroom opened and Meisner came out. Everyone stopped talking and giggling, and stared at him. He regarded their attention with guarded surprise. "What?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," said Rosalee. She sort of managed to restrain the grin on her lips but her eyes were dancing with mirth. "We were just talking . . . about tea."

' _God, she has the worst poker face ever,'_ thought Trubel.

"Tea and altruistic sex," said Wu, causing Rosalee to crack up and Adalind to glare at him. Trubel studied the linoleum pattern at her feet.

Meisner's expression said 'yeah, I'm not dealing with this' as he walked across the room to head outside. But he stopped short of the door and turned to Adalind. He took her left hand in his right, running his thumb gently across her knuckles. His voice a low purr, he said something to her in German. Adalind blushed like a teenager, a silly smile spreading across her face. Then Meisner ducked outside.

"Translation, please," requested Wu. Adalind glared at him again.

"There was some idiomatic usage, I think," said Rosalee, "but it sounded like 'if it ever happens, there won't be anything altruistic about it'."

XXXXX

[Note: What can I say? I like Meisner and Adalind together. But I don't intend to pursue the romantic angle here, so this story is compatible with Nick and Adalind becoming a couple later. One short chapter left Please review!]


	4. Chapter 4

Trubel would have prefered to be riding her motorcycle, but overall she couldn't complain. Meisner had pointed out that bikes such as hers attract attention, so they had taken one of the jeeps up to the cabin. Now they were driving back. Well, Meisner was driving. He usually did—control freak. On the plus side, he never complained about her musical selections. And he drove ridiculously fast, which Trubel enjoyed. They weren't in a hurry, really. Trubel had even talked him into stopping for burgers. But he seemed to ascribe to the motto: why go 60 when you can go 90? Must've had some kind of high-tech radar detector thing, 'cause they never got pulled over.

The last strains of a Pink Floyd song faded out. Before searching for something more current, Trubel paused the radio. "Can I run something by you?" she asked her companion.

Meisner looked over at her and nodded.

"When those Klaustreich were attacking us, before we knew who they were, I was thinking: How could Black Claw know we were there? It didn't seem likely that we were followed. How did they find us? Then it occurred to me that Hadrian's Wall knew where we were going. Maybe it wasn't Black Claw at all. Maybe our own organization staged the attack."

"And why would we do that?"

"Get the books. Or else, help us win Nick's friends' trust by working with them to protect the books."

"You think that's what happened?"

"No, not anymore. I don't think we'd hire drunk people. Too unpredictable."

"So, what's your question?"

"Is that the kind of thing the higher-ups would do? Would I know about it if they did? Would you?"

He answered the questions in sequence, "Yes, no, and probably."

Trubel didn't love those answers, and it must have shown in her expression.

Meisner added, "For what it's worth, I would oppose such a plan. We already have access to the books, and there are lower-risk ways to ingratiate ourselves with the group."

Trubel noticed that neither of these reasons turned on the fact that it would be wrong to steal from or endanger her friends. She shot back, "Other ways, like hooking up with one of them?"

"I didn't—" He started defensively, then saw her teasing grin and bit back his retort.

"I know, I know," she laughed. "But you shoulda heard what they were saying the next morning."

Meisner was the only person Trubel knew who could hear such a statement and decide that no, he really didn't want to know, and not press for details.

Impulsively, she asked, "Are you going to get Adalind's daughter back for her?"

"No."

Trubel hadn't expected him to answer her question, much less so definitely. He was looking back at the road now, but she hoped that her inquisitive expression and silence would prompt him to elaborate.

After a minute, he did: "Hexenbiests, if they can be . . . tamed, are very useful in our fight against Black Claw. Eve is an especially powerful one; Diana may become even more powerful. She needs to stay far away from us." He added, dryly, "Apparently, I am capable of beating women to achieve my goals, but not small children."

Trubel thought she heard a note of self-loathing, or at least regret, in his tone. She hoped to God it attached to beating women, not failing to beat children. In their months working together, this was the most emotion with regard to the ethics of what they were doing that she had seen from Meisner. Trubel wondered if his relative openness had something to do with what Eve had done to him. Guy like that—ruthless but not heartless—had to have a lot of memories he'd rather not have dredged up; could leave you kind of raw.

She flashed to . . .

 _Eve, fingers pressed to Meisner's forehead as he shuddered helplessly, pulling information from his mind with the same care one would give to a piece of equipment: just keep it in working order so it can continue to be useful._

 _The sound of a bottle hitting the cabin porch, awaiting the BOOM that never came. Oh God—did I do this? Did HW manipulate me into setting up Monroe and Rosalee?_

 _Cell doors opening and operatives emerging, like guns being unlocked in an armory._

 _Eve, in a stupid magenta wig, turning to look at Trubel with hollow eyes. Bruises on her face, which Trubel had never seen._

"How is it . . . how is that even an option?" Trubel exclaimed, "How is it that we work for an organization that would do that? Would use them, would use us?"

"There are reasons," he answered firmly, "You know a lot of them."

"Can it be undone? What you did to Juliette?"

"I don't think so. I hope not." He glanced over at Trubel's stricken expression and continued, "I know you were fond of her, but I don't think there's much of that person left. And if the conditioning of her Hexenbiest fails, I'm pretty sure mine will be one of the first heads to roll." The last part was punctuated with a wry half-smile.

Trubel deadpanned, "I shot her with a crossbow. Twice."

He came back with, "You might be on the short list, too."

Trubel chuckled at the dark humor. They were within the city limits now, so while they were still going half-again the speed limit, it wasn't all that fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something hurtling toward them from the right side of the street. "Look out!" she yelled.

Meisner was already swerving and braking by the time she shouted, but he couldn't avoid the impact completely. Trubel felt a sharp thud against the side of the vehicle. They skidded out of the swerve. As Meisner righted the car's trajectory, Trubel pulled a gun and scanned the vicinity for attackers. Nothing. After a few minutes of recon, they circled back to see what had hit them.

"Oh, it's a cat," said Trubel, dismayed, "We hit a cat."

"I think it hit us," Meisner noted.

But, of course, the result was the same: a small indentation in the door and a dead cat. No, not dead, just unconscious; Trubel could see that it was breathing. It was a beautiful creature, with a dark face and paws, cream-colored body, and thick fur.

"It's alive! What should we do?" Though calm and cool in life-or-death situations involving humans and wesen, she was freaking out a little now.

Meisner wasn't. "Put it out of its misery?" he suggested calmly.

"You want to kill a kitty cat? No way."

"It got hit by a car. It can't be healthy."

Trubel scowled at him. She knew this area. It was a kilometer or two from the Spice Shop, though along a stretch of road she rarely traveled. She used her phone to search for vets open nearby and came up empty. Dammit—why did it have to be Sunday night? "We could take it back with us—"

"No."

"Just for the night, then I'll give it to Nick, or to Monroe and Rosalee."

"Burkhart has an infant to worry about and Monroe is Blutbaden."

"Yeah, but he doesn't eat cats . . . anymore." She could tell her boss was unmoved, so she tried another tactic: "Eve remembers Juliette's veterinary training, right? So we can make her deal with it. That'll annoy her."

"You really think that would annoy her?" Meisner's tone was curious.

"I don't know—maybe? Worth a shot, right?" she appealed hopefully.

"Fine. One night. Then you foist it off on someone else."

Self-preservation kept Trubel from snarking "Thanks, Dad."

XXXXX

" _Adalind can't have her back."_

Thus concluded Eve's recounting of the tale of Majique, the cat whom Adalind poisoned in order to infect Juliette, resulting in a coma and memory loss for Juliette, and some kind of feline psychosis and heightened resiliency for the cat. Apparently this was the very same cat who lay purring on the lab table between the two women, now that Eve had administered an antidote.

Trubel recalled with amusement the scene from last night. The cat had regained consciousness around the time she and Meisner returned to the compound, so Trubel got to hand a hissing, shrieking box over to a thoroughly perplexed Eve.

Now, the following afternoon, the cat was pushing her head against Eve's hand, which responded—muscle memory?—by rubbing the cat behind her ear. Trubel had come to claim the cat, intending to bring her to Nick. She'd won Nick over to the idea enough that he didn't refuse outright. The problem, as Eve noted, was that Nick lived with Adalind.

It took Trubel a moment to process all this. "I thought you weren't interested in holding people accountable for what they did to Juliette?"

The cat looked up at them with beautiful blue eyes. Gazing down at her, Eve answered, "I'm not."

For once, Trubel found herself totally in agreement with Eve: once you've treated your pet like a disposable weapon, you don't get it back. She gave the other woman a conspiratorial grin and said, "You know, Meisner made it clear that _I_ can't keep the cat, but he didn't say anything about you . . ." Heck, people almost never came into Eve's quarters, on account of the creepiness of the occupant. And doesn't a witch need a familiar?

The cat raised her chin for a scratch. Eve's fingers complied. With perhaps a trace of ruefulness, she said, "That is not a feasible long-term solution."

"What would Juliette do?"

Eve focused inward, as if checking an internal database, then tapped away on her actual computer. "She has a friend from college, living in Virginia, who's posted on social media about the death of one of her cats." Trubel peeked over at the screen and saw a plump smiling woman, standing in front of a small house with big windows. Eve continued, a corner of her mouth twitching subtly, "She would . . . dote on her."

"Let's make it happen," said Trubel. Suddenly it was important to her that the cat spend her remaining days flopped in the sun, far from Portland, getting spoiled by someone who'd never heard of a Hexenbiest or a Grimm. "You can be Juliette long enough to talk the friend into it. I'll figure out how to get the cat cross-country."

Eve's expression was unreadable, but that was better than the horrible blankness that was usually there. She nodded curtly.

The mechanical hum that was the auditory backdrop of Hadrian's Wall kicked up a notch, almost imperceptibly, as the shift changed. Trubel leaned forward to let the-cat-formerly-known-as-Majique head-butt her forehead.

"At least _somebody_ ought to make it out of this mess OK."

XXXXX

The End. Please review :-)


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